


A Sunday Surprise

by Ismene_Jane



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everyone is normal, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Human Castiel, I think that's it - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Monsters don't exist, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane/pseuds/Ismene_Jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's lazy Sunday is thwarted. He finds he doesn't mind much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sunday Surprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pegasus_Eridana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasus_Eridana/gifts).



> I got the idea for this from the "apartment aus to consider" post on tumblr found here: http://missblackwood.tumblr.com/post/110153779128/apartment-aus-to-consider
> 
> Pegasus_Eridana sent to me and asked me to write one. I picked the prompt "Every time you cook you set off the smoke alarm so you know what I’m just going to teach you how to cook." 
> 
> I might write more/all of them if people like. 
> 
> Thanks to Pegasus_Eridana, for editing her own present!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Castiel Novak was having the perfect lazy Sunday. He woke up late and stretched lazily, reveled in the fact that he’d graded all of his essays yesterday. This meant that he had the whole day in front of him to relax.

 

He got out of bed and had a slow, lazy shower. He lathered his dark brown hair for full minutes, letting his fingernails drag over his scalp until low moans started rumbling from his chest. Since he’d woken up with his usual morning wood, he had already been half-hard when he’d climbed into the shower, where the sensation of the water caressing his body mixed with his own hands on his head and body brought him to full hardness.

 

He let the arousal build nice and slow, and his hand drifted down to his erection so he could loosely fist it. He spread his legs wide and started stroking himself, his head thudding against the shower wall beside him, the cool tile perfectly complimenting the heat of the water and the heat under his skin. He allowed himself as long as it took to pull the orgasm from every part of his body, never going too rough or too fast, but slow and easy. He had all the time in the world.

 

His nerves were lit up all over, and when he finally came it was calmly, a release of all the tension of his week (especially the day before when he’d been bent over his desk grading for long hours). His eyes had drifted closed long before and when his body seized up he released a sigh. It was perfect. He felt the waves of relaxation pulsing all throughout him and grinned happily, nuzzling the cold tile wall next to his head.

 

He had no idea how long he’d been showering and he didn’t care in the slightest. He got out carefully—as his limbs felt like they were made out of putty—and made his way into his bedroom and into his Lazy Sunday Clothes (sweatpants and his favorite faded t-shirt) with the same languid movements

He went to get some breakfast and his happy reverie was interrupted the second he stepped into his kitchen. He frowned at the oven as if it had offended him. And, indeed, it looked like a war zone. There were scorch marks on almost all of the once-white stovetop. Burned-on food was scattered throughout; the charred bits looking like remains in a battle. There were even black spots on the surrounding counter tops.

 

Castiel sighed. If he kept this up, he would have to buy a new oven. Again. His new appliance would be the fourth of its kind in half as many months.

 

It’s not that Castiel was stupid. He wasn’t. Really. He was the youngest tenured professor at the University of Washington, and his subject was ethics. Particularly in the medical profession. He loved his work, and liked to believe that his countless publications and dedication had saved lives, had made a difference.

 

He was only thirty and had achieved so much, so why, _why_ couldn’t he do something as simple as cook an omelet?

 

Not that his failures in the kitchen were restricted to omelets; that was just the latest disaster. Thankfully it hadn’t been a total disaster, as he hadn’t actually broken this stove yet.

 

Emphasis on _yet_.

  
It was inevitable. He would start an electrical fire (which is what happened to oven number one while he was attempting to make spaghetti), or short circuit the stove (oven number two: rice), or, um, explode the oven (number three: brownies).

 

Thank _God_ he was paid so well, and that he had such incredible insurance. Well, that last part was purposeful, it’s not like he hadn’t known he was a disaster in the kitchen when he _finally_ got his own place. There was a very good reason his roommates and family throughout his life had never let him anywhere near kitchen appliances. His siblings took it to the point where they wouldn’t even allow him to microwave leftovers.

 

…Okay, so there was that one time when he –accidentally- microwaved metal and nearly burned down his childhood home. But that could happen to _anybody_.

 

The problem was that Castiel was used to being good at things. He never gave up. He’d set his mind to being the youngest published clinical psychologist and had achieved that goal. He’d graduated everything early. He loved challenges because he loved the look on peoples’ faces when he blew away their small-minded expectations of him. He fully believed that he could do anything as long as he put the work in. So he kept trying.

 

Trying, and failing.

 

He let out a mournful sigh and then an even louder one when his stomach rumbled noisily. What he _wanted_ were pancakes. But even though he was a stubborn idiot, he wasn’t suicidal. So making them was out. And his Sunday was supposed to be lazy, so no going out to get them, either.

 

_Cereal it is_ , he thought, dismally. His stomach growled again, reiterating the sentiment.

 

He’d just gotten the milk out when there came a loud rap at his front door. His eyebrows drew together in confusion. The time on the (nearly blacked out) oven clock read 11:13 AM so he supposed it wasn’t too early for visitors, but he had no earthly idea who could be bothering him on a Sunday.

 

He checked his phone, which hadn’t rang, so it couldn’t be his siblings, who would never show up unannounced.

 

…Well Anna, Michael, and Lucifer would at least _call_. And Gabriel was in Vegas for the weekend, having his yearly…unwind. So it wouldn’t be him, either.

 

And there was nothing in his calendar.

 

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

 

“Coming!” he called out, heading to the door. “Who is it?” he asked, hand on the chain.

 

“Dean Winchester,” came a gruff reply.

 

Castiel cocked his head to the side. He knew of no such person.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his hand still fluttering over the chain. “Who?”

 

“Dean. Winchester.” The voice now sounded frustrated. Hunh. “From next door. 2B. Open the door, dude.”

 

Castiel did. First he undid the chain, then the deadbolt, then he fumbled with the doorknob. When he finally got the door open, a man shoved past him into his entryway carrying what looked to be… groceries?

 

“Excuse me,” Castiel said, flummoxed, as he closed his door and got it properly locked. “What are you doing? Do I know you? And are those _groceries_?” He followed this, this _stranger_ into his kitchen, where he’d started taking out what were definitely groceries from the paper bags he’d been carrying.

 

The man who was apparently Dean Winchester ignored him, keeping his back to Castiel as he unpacked the bags, but he was definitely muttering to himself. Castiel caught snippets of “…fucking ridiculous…” and “…even _Sammy_ can do better than this…” and “…miracle he hasn’t killed himself…”

 

Castiel was getting angrier and more confused by the second. The anger came from the fact that having this man in his space was _ruining_ his perfect lazy Sunday calm.

 

Well, that was completely unacceptable.

 

“Excuse me!” he said, again, letting his frustration into his voice. “But what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

Dean Winchester finally turned around. And okay, maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

 

Because Dean Winchester? Gorgeous. Like, _beyond_ gorgeous. He was like every fantasy Castiel had ever had wrapped in a tall, dirty blonde, green-eyed _god_. Said green eyes were currently shining with what looked like to be a combination of amusement and annoyance.

 

Suddenly, Castiel remembered having seen Dean on numerous other occasions: getting his mail, coming in at night, leaving in the morning. He’d always just caught a glimpse and had always been intimidated by the man, even though he’d never seen him full on.

 

Full on was good. Full on was _very_ good.

 

Castiel tried to get his thoughts under control. Because even though Dean was the epitome of a sexual fantasy and it was good, yes, _good_ that he was standing in Castiel’s kitchen. He looked right there, he looked…

 

_Snap out of it, Castiel_ , he admonished, shaking his head. He looked up and Dean was still looking at him, the annoyance giving way to amusement as he clearly tried not to smirk.

 

Castiel was sure that if his own brow furrowed any further, he’d have even more permanent wrinkles than he was already cursed with.

 

“Well?” he prompted, trying not to sound raspy or short of breath. _Damn him and his emerald eyes._

 

“Public service.” Dean stated, one eyebrow raising.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Castiel responded, waving his arms. And great; he was now at the wildly gesticulating part of his frustration. Marvelous.

 

“Listen, dude,” Dean huffed, hands settling on his hips and looking both utterly fuckable and completely unmovable. “I live next door and every time you cook you set off the smoke alarm. So you know what? I’m just going to teach you how to cook. As a public. Service. Service to me so that I don’t have to hear that _horrible_ noise every time you decide to try to turn on your oven and/or stove!”

 

Castiel felt his face heat alarmingly. Well, this was just plain embarrassing.

 

“But—but—” he spluttered, trying to get his flailing arms under control. “My… cooking tendencies… aside. You can’t just go barging into people’s homes on a Sunday! I’ve never met you!”

 

This time Dean outright grinned. And Castiel felt like it was not his stove but his body that short-circuited, this time. He stared at Dean’s gorgeousness, feeling his heart splutter and try to beat regularly. Dean was just so _beautiful_.

 

He was still staring into Dean’s sparkling eyes when he realized the man had spoken.

 

“Hunh?” Castiel asked, dazed.

 

“Dean Winchester. Chef. Specializing in pastries. Particularly of the pie and tart variety.” Dean said (repeated), and Castiel realized that he’d been holding out his hand this whole time. 

 

“Cas—” Castiel faltered, cleared his throat. “Castiel Novak. Professor of clinical psychology.” He grasped Dean’s hand with his own and felt a bolt of lightning zing up his arm, settling into a warm pulsing in his stomach. He felt his lips lift into a tentative smile.

 

“Well hey there, Cas—uh,” Dean took his hand back to scratch the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. He smiled at Castiel from under his too-long eyelashes. Castiel’s smile grew wider.

 

“Cas is fine,” he said, unable to take his eyes from Dean’s. “Hello, Dean.” Just saying his neighbor’s name made the warmth in his stomach spread.

 

Dean’s cheeks turned a little pink as their staring went on for longer than was socially acceptable. Castiel tried not to find it incredibly endearing.

  
Seems he was failing at many things, these days.

 

“So,” he said, trying to lighten the suddenly awkward tension in the room. “What are we making today?”

 

Dean tore his eyes from Castiel’s, and cleared his throat. The tension still hung in the air.

 

_Oh God,_ Castiel thought, _please let it be sexual tension._ Please _._

“Pancakes.” Dean said, with finality. “I have blueberries and bananas and chocolate chips and—”

 

But Castiel never found out what else Dean had brought in his magical bag of pancake ingredients, because suddenly he was kissing Dean Winchester. In his kitchen.

 

The man’s lips were pillowy soft and felt perfect under his own chapped ones. Dean let out a soft sound of surprise before he was kissing back, tentatively but happily. Castiel smiled into the kiss and felt Dean smile as well, his lips curving as they closed around Castiel’s and pulled away for a moment, only to return from a different angle.

 

A tongue pressed against Castiel’s lips and he smiled even wider to allow it entry. Dean’s tongue curled around his languidly; a slow burn meant to tease, not to ignite just yet. Castiel let out a quiet hum of happiness as their tongues tangled. Then he pulled back, closing his mouth around Dean’s bottom lip as they kissed, sweetly, one last time.

 

He moved far enough back so that he could see Dean’s face, but he was still in the other man’s personal space.

 

Dean hummed in pleasure, and when he spoke his voice came out low, warm, and husky.

 

“Damn, Cas,” he said. “Didn’t anyone teach you about personal bubbles?”

 

“No, Dean,” Castiel replied, grinning. “I suppose we’ll have to add that lesson to my cooking classes.” He leaned in just far enough to nuzzle Dean’s cheek.

 

“Nah,” Dean rumbled. “I think our cooking classes will be more… _effective_ if you’re close enough to get your hands dirty.”

 

“Indeed. And after breakfast, could I interest you in a private tour of my home?” Castiel felt daring, playful.  “There are various surfaces that are perfect for lazing about. Watching movies. Kissing. That sort of thing.”

 

“Cas, I think I’m gonna be spending a lot of time here.” Dean smiled and Castiel could feel it against his cheek.

 

_Oh yeah_ , he thought. _Best lazy Sunday_ ever.

 

Castiel gave Dean a quick kiss.

 

“I will definitely need a lot of classes,” he intoned, seriously. “I think it would be best if you were here often.”

 

“Sounds good to me, Cas,” Dean said, stealing another kiss.

 

 Castiel pulled away from the kiss and turned to his stove, which for once _didn’t_ make him feel homicidal.

 

“Now,” he said, clapping his hands together. “What about those pancakes?”

**Author's Note:**

> Love/hate? Lemme know! And if there's a tumblr prompt from that list you'd like to see from me, gimme a shout in the comments!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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